The Tale of Three Brothers
by Quickfade
Summary: A dramatised version of a Sims 2 legacy family!
1. Preface

_A/N: I was so excited to have finally finished my Sims 2 legacy family that I decided to dramatise it. Let's just say it seemed like a good idea at the time! A work in progress..._

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**The Tale of Three Brothers**

**Preface**

This tale begins, not with three brothers as one might be expecting. No, it begins long before those three brothers came into the world with the story of their father's, father's father: their Great Grandfather, a man named Zachary English.

Zachary English, in his younger years, was a rather naïve sort of chap. Newly graduated and with the ink still wet on his diploma, he arrived at the sleepy backwater of Rivertown, eager to make his mark on the world. He still carried with him enough of that youthful exuberance, not yet tarnished by cynicism, or any inner doubt that the world could be anything but an even playing field, ready for the young gentleman to make his mark.

Now, Zachary, being from humble stock himself, was blind to the issue of social, economic and educational class divides: he suffered from a privilege all too obvious to those men who had not had the advantages of a stable upbringing, a good education and a full stomach and warm bed each night. With not a concern in the world, he settles upon a wife of fair face and slender body but, unfortunately, little education, wit or common sense. While Dagmar was certainly a magnet for a hot-blooded male, there was little else underneath the veneer and she had suffered many a broken heart in her quest for true love. Jaded and in need of a good meal inside her, she was flattered by the attention of the rather naïve youth. Necessity and lust overcame common sense and she allowed herself to ignore the nagging suspicion that Zachary's interest in her would be his own social undoing.

However, despite the unlikely start to the romance, the relationship sustained the course and bore a single child, a delicate girl named Zora who had the very good fortune of inheriting the best traits of both parents: her mother's looks and her father's lust for life and aptitude for knowledge. And so the years passed and Zachary made a name for himself, and gradually Dagmar's inauspicious starting point in society began to fade to a more distant memory. From acting the role of doting upper-middle class wife, it became more like second-nature and as people drifted in and out of Rivertown collective memory almost forgot how the poor wife of Zachary English came from beggar roots.

Zora, however, did not have to act the part. Unaware of her mother's background, and not having been introduced to her mother's family, who had been all but wiped from history as far as the English family were concerned, Zora blossomed into a high-society lady about town, attracting the eye of many a young gentleman eager to be the first to pluck that ripe young blossom, so unspoiled by life and experience. And as Zora grew and gradually stretched her wings, first to university and then out into the world to make a career for herself, Zachary began to feel, for the first time in his indulgent existence, a twinge of fear and regret that he perhaps had not prepared his daughter as well as he might.

And for the first time Zachary dreamed of what might be to come and began to see Rivertown not has a place of unsullied beauty and opportunity, but as a dangerous façade, full of subterfuge and deceit. As one young man after another paraded themselves before his beautiful, innocent daughter, Zachary grew older and more cynical and bitter. Rivertown to him was no longer a place of peace, but a place that would destroy the English family legacy and create, in its ashes, a new legacy both horrific and awesome in equal measure.

And so we must now fast forward through the generations, stepping in the wake of a young girl whose combination of beauty and naivety set the scene for a family at war; a family torn apart by lust, betrayal and alien abductions.


	2. Funeral

**The Funeral**

Alex Deppiesse was dead. There was little doubt about that as his body was lowered slowly into the frozen ground. That he was dead had not come as a shock to any of the mourners huddled around the open grave, watching the cedar box bumping gently against the sides as it settled into its last resting place. Alex must have been at least 80, probably older, although he had always been very cagey when it came to discussing his past, never tying himself to historical events and certainly never offering an answer to that aged old question 'where were you when…'.

If an outsider was looking in at his funeral right now, they would be astounded at the variety of life that had turned out for the event on this cold, frosty morning in late-autumn. Perhaps an onlooker would note how few tears were being shed and the general feeling of unease tinged with sadness and regret; but not devastation, certainly not that. Not even from an elderly lady supported on the shoulder of a young man, twisting her wedding ring around her finger, eyes averted from both the coffin and the other mourners. One might fail to guess that the lady was the deceased wife, so little grief being displayed on her aged face, although that would be an incorrect assumption. Brenda Deppiesse was the only wife that Alex had ever had.

The mourners themselves consist of both young and old, smartly dressed and those who look as though they have just popped in on the way to the supermarket or to the gym. Alex kept company with some odd folk; that was the rumour in town, anyhow.

But look closer, look beneath the clothes, makeup and other camouflage and an outsider may be able to spot perhaps the catalyst of the atmosphere surrounding the funeral. For three young men stand out from the crowd. Three young men particularly affected by this event. Three young men who are brothers, sons of a dead man, strangers yet bound by a tragedy that even they don't yet understand. This is the day, the place and the time when three lives will collide; three histories merge and become one.

Rivertown can feel the change coming, growing restless as the ceremony drags on, hymns sung slowly, speeches carefully sounded out, word by word by word… the town waits, anticipates, everything suspended while events career towards their inevitable conclusion.


	3. Letters

**The Letters**

_22 August_

_My dearest Brenda, _

_My love, my only. I am writing this from my hospital bed. I know the doctors have said I am free to come home tomorrow, that they think I am now in the all clear, but I feel it inside me still, waiting, biding its time until we are once again happy and content with life. I do not know how much longer I have, despite what they tell me, and thus I am thinking of how to make things right, undo what I have done… to you, to our son and to the memories we share. _

_Oh Brenda, I have been so foolish to take this to the grave with me. I must admit that was my original intention so I would not see you hurt so, and I could not risk the truth becoming public knowledge without warning those who will be destroyed in the process. For you see, my sweet, things are not as they seem. And once I am gone and my life elsewhere, there will be no-one left to keep things covered up and all that I have worked for in my life will be torn open. _

_I cannot explain in this letter what you are to expect; there are no words that could adequately convey what has happened and I could not, in a hundred years be able to find the words to justify, explain, defend. Just know that I love you and Caleb more than my life, more than I deserve to love anyone. You are both the only things I do not regret in this life. Perhaps, on judgement day, He will be lenient for that, although God knows I do not deserve it. _

_Brenda, I remember the day we brought Caleb home from the hospital. I remember how proud we both were, carrying him in his cradle down the hospital driveway, how we smiled and showed off our treasure, our prize, to anyone who would stop to look at him. Remember how golden his hair was, how much he had for a baby! And his blue eyes and soft fair skin. He looked like an angel. Our angel. And my mother, oh how she was waiting on the front door step to greet us, her first grandchild and how she did not want to leave that evening, could not bear to go back home to my father after spending those few precious hours away from that place, cocooned in our bubble of happiness. _

_It is no excuse, but I feel that until she died, my whole existence was to prove to my mother that her poor marriage and the way she broke up my grandparent's hopes and dreams for her was not in vain. That the poor gardener she got pregnant by and trapped into marriage had not ruined the family legacy and the blood lines were still strong and proud and true. But Brenda, oh Brenda, if only she had known the truth. That is why, when all of this comes out, I want you to know, that is why I did what I did. My mother would have died if she had known how history has a habit of repeating and that the bloodlines that she fought so hard to restore were broken beyond repair. That I broke them; that I not only lived up to her worst nightmares, but am guilty of far worse. _

_And so, my beloved, when all of this comes out upon my death, I just want you to know one thing: I am truly and deeply sorry. _

_Please forgive me, although I know that I shall die not having forgiven myself. _

_Yours forever, Alex_

_22 August_

_Dear Caleb, _

_My dearest boy, how you have grown in the last few years. I honestly look at you sometimes and wonder how you do not change before my very eyes. You are tall and broad and strong, just like a man should be, indeed just like a Deppiesse should be. I know you do not see, at the moment, how your life will turn out: you are just finishing university and have not found your direction as I write. Son, do not worry, it will come. Enjoy your youth, enjoy your freedom and the opportunities that will come your way. _

_But, my son, I have to warn you. Once I am gone, your memories of me will fade, as they should, but I fear they will be replaced with much darker feelings; that grief will turn to anger, perhaps hatred, for your father. Indeed, I deserve it for I have not been honest with either of you. I have not wanted to spoil your childhood with regret and scandal and my stupid mistakes. A son should not have to pay for his father's misdeeds and I have tried to shield you for as long as I possibly could. _

_This letter is my last chance to make amends, for although I have not opportunity to say this to your face, this still comes from my heart. I love you Caleb, and I regret nothing of my life with you and your mother. You two have been the shining beacon of hope in the dark passages of my existence. You have made me more and more proud every day of all that you have achieved. You are good, true, faithful, honest and loving. I know you will make a wonderful husband and father one day and I am just sad that I will not be there to experience it with you. _

_My memories are full of us spending long weekends fishing, hiking and camping in the mountains. Of your first day at school when you cried all the way to the gates and then refused to come home in the afternoon because you were having too much fun. Of meeting your first girlfriend and then comforting you when she broke your heart. Of being proud and sad, hopeful and anxious as we packed you off in the car to university. Son, you have made me alive and I have experienced what it is like to know that you would die for another human being without even a hesitation. _

_Whatever happens once I am gone, Caleb, please remember that the father you knew, the man you thought I was, that was who I desired to be and you let me be that man Caleb. Thanks to you and your mother I had that chance. _

_Please take care of your mother through all of this – she deserved better, I know, and I am full of regret for that. _

_Love always, your father_


	4. Diary

**The Diary**

_Journal Entry 3530_

Dear Journal,

Spoke with Doug re my promotion today. He thinks I have it in the bag, but will have to wait until Tuesday's rating are in. If I can get the regular spot as resident Chef on Good Morning Central, no doubt the book deals and promotional sauces, kitchen equipment and aprons will come flooding in.

The money situation is still not good. The kitchen remodel has been completed, but the quote the builder gave me today for the extension is astronomical! I'd wait until we are out of the recession but the house is just getting too small to live in comfortably with a six foot teenage boy banging round the house all day.

Honestly, he is shooting up, eating like a horse and leaving trails of dirt, trainers, sports equipment and piles of school books everywhere. It's not only that, with him bringing this new girlfriend home every night the space is even more cramped. I can't go in any room without falling over one of them.

Had an argument with him earlier about having her over to stay the night. Not that I can lecture and he knows it. He must know that I've only got his best interests at heart. Half of the girls these days are just looking to trap a good looking boy and, not wanting to sound boastful, but I know my Zorro is probably the hot property of his school – obviously having an actress's good genes has helped.

I'm really not sure what to do about him… he doesn't seem keen to go to University, although I have no doubt he'd get the grades for it – no son of mine is going to be left without the best tuition if necessary! He's looked into joining the army enough times, but too many rules and regulations for his liking… not surprising he is like he is considering his parents.

Enough. I refuse to even think about that waste of space. My boy is my boy – I raised him single handedly and am damn proud of the job I've done.

Must dash – I've got a meeting with my solicitor. He requested a meeting yesterday, something urgent has come up. Hopefully my new contract with any luck!

_Journal Entry 3531_

Dear Journal,

The bastard. The dirty stinking good-for-nothing waste-of-oxygen bastard! He's not only gone and died, hasn't he. Died and not left a penny to his son. Not a single pound! The tight thieving son-of-a-bitch. The sacrifices I made to raise our son without chasing him through the courts, without turning up on the doorstep of his perfect red brick townhouse, in its perfect riverside location with his perfect blonde-haired blue-eyed wife and their spoilt blond-haired blue-eyed son. Well, I have my own version at home who would blow theirs out of the water for looks and intelligence. Wasn't raised with a silver spoon though, and whose fault was that?

Oh he has left my boy something though… a letter, an invitation to his funeral, to the will reading. Where my boy will find out he's been left nothing, but will have to watch his inheritance go to the 'rightful heir'. It makes my blood boil. My poor boy has had a struggle all his life – fatherless, penniless, with a mother who was forced to work until her fingers bled to put a roof over their heads. While his other son was probably bathing in champagne and supping caviar in his highchair. Scandalous!

I swear on all that is holy, I will not rest until my boy gets what he deserves. My name is not Emily Dante-Smith, actress-cum-celebrity chef extraordinaire, toughest woman in show biz, for nothing. If that son-of-a-bitch wants a fight, well… he's got one.


End file.
